


between friends

by kitseybarbours



Series: stay with me [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archive Sex, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Bisexual Character, Clothed Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Touch-Starved Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Workplace Sex, cis tim stoker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24247957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: Tim thinks Jon needs to get laid. Surprising even himself, Jon agrees.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Series: stay with me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750270
Comments: 24
Kudos: 240





	between friends

**Author's Note:**

> Edited 13/09/20. In this fic's original form, Jon was cis, but since it was first posted (18/05/20), my headcanons have changed. I've rewritten Jon as trans in this fic, and trans he will remain for the rest of this series. The words used for his genitalia are 'cock' and 'slit.'

* * *

‘Statement ends.’

 _Click._ The tape recorder whirs to a stop and Jon leans back in his desk chair with a sigh. That’s the last one for the day; they sap his energy like nothing else. Although there’s a pile of written statements sitting in his in-tray—a pile that he swears only gets taller—he can’t face the thought of recording even one more. Gratefully he sets aside the page he’d been reading from, written in a cramped, frantic hand: just looking at it had made him feel like there was a gun to the back of his neck. He takes off his reading glasses and rubs a hand over his face, exhaling deeply. When he opens his eyes again, the tall, lanky figure of Tim Stoker is standing in his doorway, hand poised to knock.

‘Tim,’ says Jon, startled, just as Tim gives a cheeky, rhythmic knock: _shave and a haircut, two bits._ ‘I’m sorry, I was recording. What is it?’

‘Can I come in?’

Jon beckons him in, reaching for the statement page again; he’s forgotten to add the date he recorded it, and does so now, in tired handwriting hardly neater than that of the statement’s original author. When he looks up again, he sees that Tim has closed the door behind him. Jon frowns. ‘I do try to keep that open during the workday.’

Tim laughs, pushing his rumpled black hair back out of his eyes. ‘I know. It’s six-thirty. We’re the only ones here.’

‘Oh.’ Jon clears his throat. ‘Ah—What’s this about?’

‘I have a theory,’ Tim begins, forthright as ever. ‘Or maybe a hypothesis? I can never remember which is which. Whatever. I have one of them.’

‘About what?’ Jon asks. ‘A case? A statement?’

‘No, boss. About you.’

‘About _me.’_

‘Yup.’

Jon picks up his reading glasses, unfolds them, refolds them, and lays them down on his desk again, nudging them so they lie perfectly square to his keyboard. He steeples his hands in front of his mouth. ‘Okay. What…about me?’

‘Well, basically, through careful research and observation,’ says Tim matter-of-factly, ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re in need of some pointless, meaningless, no-strings-attached sex.’

Jon chokes. ‘I’m _sorry?’_

Tim shrugs. ‘You don’t sleep. You jump about a mile when anyone touches you. Your stress levels are roughly equivalent to those of a man with a chronic tremor who’s just been handed the nuclear launch button—which, I mean, _really,_ this is an _archive job._ And,’ he concludes, ‘you don’t…do…people. Relationships. _Love._ Whatever. I mean, just look at the way Martin—’

‘The way Martin what?’ Jon interrupts, casting an unconscious glance at the three days’ worth of un-drunk mugs of tea on the corner of his desk.

‘Never mind.’ Tim rocks on his heels. ‘So. Am I right? You. Sex. Could use some,’ he prompts, when Jon stares at him blankly.

‘I—no. Well, I mean—I—I mean, yes. I mean—no. I mean—what are you _implying?’_

Jon’s voice has risen to an affronted pitch, his cheeks flushing. He feels ready to burn up with embarrassment, but not because Tim has misjudged him—no; he’s read the situation all too well.

Jon _doesn’t_ do people, or relationships, or love, or whatever, and for a long time he’s been fine with that. He still regrets the way things ended with Georgie, but that wound has long since scarred over and he’s learned not to go picking at its edges. But since he got this job, the Archive job, he’s found himself uncomfortably aware of his body—of _having_ a body—for perhaps the first time since he transitioned.

He lives so much inside his head here that, it seems, his body has begun to feel ignored, and put up a rebellion. He doesn’t sleep without chemical intervention, and even then not well. Food repulses him, even the blandest of tastes or the dishes he’d once enjoyed without a second thought. He’s gotten used to the sight of his face in the mirror, prematurely ageing, the bags under his eyes growing deeper and darker by the day. The task of keeping himself, his body, alive and upright and at least somewhat _well_ is seeming more and more impossible by the day.

And then—sex. He wants it, in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted it before, certainly not since he first started hormones. With Georgie it was nice, yes, it was good, but they’d both known it was more for her benefit than his, and in the end that had shamed him so much, somehow, that they’d just stopped doing it altogether. (The old wound prickles, deep down.) But now he feels a _need_ for it, a need to get out of his head, to forget about the thousand obscure and malevolent and somehow interconnected discoveries he seems to make every day; to make his body, _and_ his mind, someone else’s responsibility, even for a little while.

What Jon wants—it hits him, sudden clarity, so sharp he could cry out—what Jon wants is just to stop _thinking._

Tim is watching him. ‘I’m implying,’ he says gently, ‘that I could help you out.’

‘Yes,’ Jon says. He doesn’t think. ‘Yes. Please do.’

Tim’s face eases into that charming, cavalier smile he wears so well. ‘That went _much_ easier than expected, if I’m honest with you.’ In the air, he mimes ticking a box: ‘Seduce boss. _Tick._ There’s my evening sorted.’

‘D’you mean you’ve been—you were— _planning this?’_

‘Well, I mean, not in so many words. But I, ah, did stay late tonight on purpose.’

‘I’m…flattered,’ Jon says. He swallows. ‘So—ah—how far did your…plans…extend?’

‘All the way to how you like your eggs in the morning,’ Tim says cheerily. ‘I had you down for poached, hard, salt, no pepper. I’m just kidding,’ he says, to Jon’s stricken look. ‘No strings attached, remember? Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am is the name of the game here, I figure. Unless, of course, you…?’

‘No,’ Jon says at once, and immediately feels guilty, seeing a flicker of something like disappointment in Tim’s eyes. If he reads too much into _that,_ they’ll be here all night and into next week. ‘Not that I—what I mean is, for the sake of our _working_ relationship, I don’t think it would be—’

‘Of course not,’ says Tim smoothly. ‘My thoughts exactly. Speaking of _work,_ actually, I figured we didn’t even have to leave the building to, you know, get down to business. The Archive—there’s no CCTV in there, yeah?’

It takes Jon a moment to realise what he means. Heat floods his face when he does. ‘No. None. The wiring’s too old, or—or something.’

‘Cool,’ says Tim. He claps his hands. ‘Shall we?’

* * *

They walk for a long time through the maze of the Archive, their path illuminated by the torch on Tim’s phone. Jon’s familiar with some of it, familiar enough to warn Tim away from the filing cabinets that seem at perpetual risk of falling over and crushing unwary assistants to death, but it’s different being in here at night, and under these rather exceptional circumstances. It feels like they’ve left the Institute entirely and entered a secret city, of which they are the only inhabitants. Jon finds, with no little relief, that he’s even managed to shake the feeling of being watched that creeps over him whenever he records a statement.

‘How about here?’ Tim asks, his voice emanating from the dark in front of him. Jon’s hand is bunched in the fabric of Tim’s flannel shirt, allowing him to be led. Truth be told, his eyes have adjusted enough by now that he probably doesn’t need to keep holding on, but it’s comforting to be reminded why he’s—why _they’re—_ here.

Tim has come to a stop in a secluded corner created by two filing cabinets at right angles to one another. They’re sturdy, solid, and not overloaded enough to risk tipping over on them, and the little nook they make puts them well out of view of the main corridor of the Archive—although it’s dark, it’s late, and no one else is in the building. ‘Yes, this is good,’ Jon agrees. ‘Or, I mean, I should think it is. Does it suit…what you had in mind?’

‘You tell me,’ Tim says easily. ‘What do you want?’

Jon’s mind goes blank. In all the time he’s had to consider this—that is to say, the maybe thirty-five minutes since Tim first made his proposal—he’s given no thought to the deed itself, as it were. What does he want? What does he _like?_ It’s been so long since Jon has asked himself these questions, never mind since someone has asked them to him, that he’s not sure if he’s ever known the answers.

 _Think, Jon._ Penetrative requires so many accoutrements—not to mention so much forethought _and_ so much clean-up—that Jon knows at once it’s out of the question. _That’s easy, then. One option down._ Fingering is good, if vaguely impersonal—not to mention that Jon could simply get himself off that way if he was feeling so inclined, which is quite distinctly not the point of this exercise. Only one thing seems to make any sense.

‘Could you just, ah—’ Jon fumbles, the words refusing to cross his lips. He gestures downwards, hoping Tim will get the point.

‘Eat you out?’ Tim interprets, a mischievous smile playing on his mouth. Jon nods meekly. ‘Sure I can.’

Tim gets to his knees before Jon, his tall form folding fluidly. He makes quick work of Jon’s trouser zip—Jon’s mouth is already going dry—and then, before easing down his jeans and briefs so they pool around his ankles, looks up at him. ‘So. You’re the boss here, boss. You tell me exactly what you like, what you want, and I’ll do it, yeah? And if anything— _anything_ —isn’t good, at _any time,_ you tell me that too, and I’ll stop. Sound good?’

‘Yeah,’ says Jon. He tries to ignore the sudden constriction in his throat; it feels like the onset of tears. ‘Yeah, that sounds—really good.’

‘Cool,’ says Tim, flashing a genuine smile. ‘Spread your legs for me, will you? There we are. I’m gonna touch you now. That okay?’

‘Yes.’

Tim wasn’t wrong. When touched, Jon’s instinct _is,_ as Tim had so neatly put it, to jump a mile, no matter where it is or who’s doing the touching. He just doesn’t…like it, never has: something about the boundaries of his own body being breached, the sudden reminder that he exists in a world with others and is not immune to them. But it is surprisingly easy for him to hold still, not to flinch, as Tim gently parts his folds and strokes his thumb over Jon’s cock. He wonders briefly how long it’s been—in years, in hours, in minutes—since someone else has touched him here. The thought suddenly makes him sad.

‘Okay so far?’ Tim asks.

Jon nods, trying to shake himself out of his head. ‘Yes, that’s fine.’

‘I’m gonna touch you a little, just to get things going,’ Tim tells him. ‘Would you rather do it yourself or am I okay?’

‘You’re fine,’ says Jon. ‘Go ahead.’

Tim touches him with gentle pressure, his skin—a warm, burnished tan—looking fairer than ever against Jon’s. His fingers are comfortably calloused; Jon thinks he remembers something Tim had mentioned once about playing the guitar, or maybe it was the double bass?

 _You’re thinking. Stop it,_ he reminds himself. He takes a deep breath and exhales for as long as he can.

‘How are we doing?’ Tim asks, taking Jon’s cock between two fingers and tugging a little, in a way that makes Jon suck in his breath. ‘Still okay?’

‘Yes,’ Jon says, shivering as Tim keeps up his movements and blood begins to fill Jon’s cock in earnest. It’s standing out from its hood now, still small, but quite definitely erect. ‘Very.’

‘D’you want me to use my mouth now, or not yet?’

‘Mm. Now, I think. Yes. Yes, please.’

‘I like a man who says please,’ says Tim. He stills his hand, and bends his head between Jon’s legs. 

It feels—glorious. It’s a silly word, and Jon blushes as soon as it comes into his head, but he can’t think of a better one. _God,_ it’s been a long time, and he means no disrespect to Georgie but this hadn’t been her favourite thing to do, and Tim is better. Much, much better. A shaking moan escapes Jon’s lips as Tim takes the whole of his cock between his lips, his mouth impossibly warm.

Tim looks up at him, dark eyes steady, and raises his eyebrows: _All okay?_

Jon nods, and then finds he has to say it out loud. ‘That feels—good. Really good. Ah—keep going.’

Tim does. He lowers his eyes (God, how has Jon never noticed how long Tim’s eyelashes are?) and sets to work, sucking Jon’s cock with a varying pressure that feels unbelievably wonderful, never growing old. He circles Jon’s slit with his tongue and Jon can’t help but cry out, a kind of choked-off moan that doesn’t, that can’t, resolve itself into Tim’s name.

He’s suddenly aware of his hands. They need something to do, and Tim’s curls are right there, thick and dark, inherited from his Brazilian mum, Jon suddenly recalls, and he buries his hands in them, grounding himself. Tim hums low in his throat, looking up at Jon with clear approval. The sight of him between Jon’s legs makes his eyelids flutter shut as though he’s experienced a brief short-circuit. He closes his eyes, overwhelmed.

Tim pulls back for a moment. ‘I can feel you tensing up,’ he says gently. ‘Talk to me.’ Tell me how you’re feeling. Stay here with me, yeah?’

His voice is low and soothing. Jon is glad to have something to do. Tim waits for his nod and then takes him into his mouth again, making Jon shudder all over with sensation. ‘That’s good,’ he manages. ‘I like it—like that—just there. Oh. _Oh,_ yes, Tim, like that. Please. Please, more.’

He’s aware that he’s babbling. This reassures him: more words, fewer thoughts. This is what he wanted. _This is what you wanted,_ he reminds himself, and is rewarded with a fierce, sparkling joy: _Yes. Yes, it is._ His whole body stiffens, surprised by the sudden force of his pleasure—and then, hands fisting tightly in Tim’s curls, he’s coming, barely able to warn Tim with a shout of _‘Oh,_ I’m—’

Tim takes him through it, holding his hips to keep him steady. He gives Jon a last, broad lick from his slit up to his cock, drawing one final, whimpering shudder from him, and then gets to his feet with fluid ease, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘There we are,’ says Tim softly. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes,’ says Jon, panting. He meets Tim’s eyes, suddenly alarmed: ‘But what about you? Do you need—anything?’

‘This was about _you,_ boss. Trust me, I can take care of myself. Got a date with a cutie from Police Records tomorrow night, as it happens.’ He shoots Jon a pair of finger guns, grinning.

‘Good,’ says Jon. He hadn’t even _contemplated_ giving Tim anything in return, he realises rather guiltily, and he’s far too dazed to do anything about it right now. But, he reminds himself, this was meant as a favour to him. He’s always hated people to do things for him—it makes him feel like he’s manipulated them, somehow, even if they volunteer—but he’s going to learn how to accept it. _Starting right now._

Tim places a hand on his shoulder. ‘Shall we, then?’

Somehow they make it out of the Archive, Jon once again gripping the back of Tim’s shirt and following him as though in a dream. Tim locks it up behind them, with a key that looks suspiciously similar to one Jon had lost about six weeks ago. It’s probably just a coincidence; all the skeleton keys passed down from his predecessor look the same, all irritatingly curlicued and pretentiously antique.

‘Let’s get you home, then, yeah? Do you need anything from your office? Chocolate biscuit, maybe? Third drawer down, on the right,’ says Tim.

‘How do you—’

‘Martin’s not as innocent as he looks.’

Jon heaves a sigh. Archive-key theft _and_ biscuit theft by his assistants are too much to contemplate on top of what he’s just been through. Tim sees the long-suffering look in his eye and smiles slightly. He leans in to press an impulsive kiss to his cheek.

‘You look a tad shell-shocked, boss. Be honest—was I that bad?’

Jon raises a hand to the place where Tim kissed him, staring straight ahead. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No. Not—not bad at all.’

‘Good,’ says Tim, cheekily. ‘Can’t have you ruining my reputation as the best shag at the Institute.’

 _‘Oh,’_ Jon says, snapping back to himself. ‘I won’t—I won’t be _telling_ anybody—’

‘I know, boss. I’m just teasing.’ He winks. ‘Seriously, though. Did I judge it right? Was that what you…needed?’

‘Yes,’ says Jon quietly. ‘It was. And I probably wouldn’t have—would never have—sorted it myself. So…thank you, for that.’

Tim shrugs. ‘Don’t mention it. What’s a little casual sex between friends?’

‘Are we?’ Jon is startled.

‘Are we what?

‘Friends.’

Tim looks at him as though he’s sprouted an extra head. ‘Of course we are. What, did you think I duetted “Don’t Go Breaking my Heart” at Archive Karaoke Night TM with just _anyone?’_

‘Did you just say the trademark symbol out loud?’

 _‘Yes,_ Jon, we’re _friends._ I know you’ve got this whole brooding, reclusive, slightly misanthropic Oxford don-except-not-white thing going on, but, like…people like you. _I_ like you. And you’re not so bad to hang out with, at least when you’re not spouting off about how mayonnaise works or whatever the fuck.’

‘Emulsifiers are interesting,’ Jon says weakly. He’s stunned by the sudden warmth he feels, spreading inside his chest, at the ease with which Tim had assumed that yes, of course they were _friends._ Tim likes him. _People_ like him. His new co-workers, whom not so long ago Jon had earnestly believed to be plotting against him, _like him._ The thought is utterly foreign, and more comforting than Jon could have imagined.

Tim scoffs. _‘Martin_ certainly thinks they are. Did you _see_ the look on his—Actually, you know what, you’ve had a big day; now probably isn’t the right time for all that.’ He turns on his heel and continues down the corridor, whistling, his hands shoved in his pockets.

Jon practically sprints to catch up with him, snagging him by the sleeve. ‘For _what?_ Now isn’t the right time for _all what?’_

‘Oh, nothing, nothing.’ Tim spins on his heel and examines him, and then gives a saucy wink. ‘Just…well, for future reference—that spot in the Archive was here before I found it, and it’ll be there long after I’m gone. It’s not my exclusive property, if you know what I mean—as the kids say, it’s free real estate.’

‘Are you…bequeathing me your secret Archive sex spot?’ Jon says, a little wildly.

‘Oh, I’m still going to use it,’ Tim assures him. ‘But, you know, if you guys ever…’

 _‘Martin?_ Me and _Martin?’_

‘Hey, boss, don’t look at me like that. Give it a think, eh? You might be surprised.’ He grins hugely: ‘After all, who’d-a thunk it, you and me, huh? The uptight boss and the office bad boy.’

‘Oh, _hardly,’_ Jon scoffs. ‘I don’t think _bad boys_ call their mothers every Thursday at half-past two precisely.’ _Uptight,_ he knows, is a fight he won’t win.

Tim actually looks chastened. ‘Bloody _hell,_ these walls are thin. But that’s not the point.’ He leans down to Jon, pressing another fleeting kiss to his cheek: ‘You oughta know better than anyone, boss-man. Stranger things have happened.’

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to [Tatum](https://twitter.com/Tatumsdrawing) for the [Tim inspiration](https://twitter.com/Tatumsdrawing/status/1261907854002290688) and [Robin](https://twitter.com/r_omulus) for the headcanons! (Tim's karaoke selections are all hers.) I’m [saintmontague](https://twitter.com/saintmontague) on Twitter.


End file.
